


Memento Mori

by larissabernstein



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Aestheticism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Female Character, Character Study, Discord Art Contest, Dissociation, F/F, F/M, LGBTQ Female Character, Lesbian Character, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, pride month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:43:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19069393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: Both day and night left her as soulless automaton, not unlike her mechanic doppelganger in the subterranean lair, and with the two halves warring inside her, Christine knew she had long lost herself in the no-man’s-land between them.Three years after the events of the Final Lair, a nightly visitor makes Christine confront her inner demons.Winner of the first art contest of OG's Obedient Servants on Discord, in the category literature, for the theme PotO PRIDE.





	Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> A mix of ALW and Leroux universe, with a different spin on Christine's character.  
> Accompanying artwork by Barbra Daly.

 

Ὁ βίος βραχύς,

ἡ δὲ τέχνη μακρή,

ὁ δὲ καιρὸς ὀξύς,

ἡ δὲ πεῖρα σφαλερή,

ἡ δὲ κρίσις χαλεπή.

 

Life is short,

and art long,

opportunity fleeting,

experimentations perilous,

and judgment difficult.

 

(Hippocrates, _Aphorismi_ )

 

 

**Memento Mori**

 

When all was said and done, the tears long dried up into salty memories on her cheeks, the last unsung notes choked on vows and etiquette, there was nothing left to mourn.

Three years had passed since her wedding to Raoul, since she had left Paris and her former life and friends behind to take the stage in a new role: perfectly poised noblewoman, virtuous wife, skilled host of charity balls and dinner parties. She had gotten used to the new routine fairly easily; Raoul had made it easy: the pedestal of her virtue had existed far longer than his love for her. She just had to take her appointed place and stick to the cues of chivalry, between chaste kisses on closed lips and, at rare intervals, marital duties under the duvet. It was oddly anti-climactic and businesslike, but expectedly so. Fairy tales never detailed how daily life actually panned out for the prince and princess, beyond the trite promise that they lived happily ever after. Raoul probably did. Between his military career on faraway expeditions and the obligations of his title, Christine was a treasured jewel among the medals on his coat.

It was only in the dark and often lonely hours of night that Christine allowed herself to ponder what she had lost. Nothing felt right, everything hurt, and it had for a very long time. These hours were filled with nightmarish images, as if the parts of her that she had painfully excised and locked into the deepest recesses of her soul, finally came out to play. A different Christine was it that tossed and turned in her sleep and clawed at unseen monsters. (She would hide the self-inflicted scratches on her skin with make-up in the mornings.)

Not too surprisingly, _he-who-was-not-to-be-named_ during day visited her dreams at night, and then he was just _Erik_ , and this was worse, because he had a name and a face, and he dared to ask the questions she had on her mind. What would have been if…If he had let her stay instead of sending her away? If she had become his angelic wife and joined him in his kingdom of the night, to rule in the name of art? How would the fairy tale have ended? The throne in this dark kingdom was scarily similar to her daytime pedestal, with probably more rage, more tears and self-flagellation, but she could feel and see them in her imagination: the misshapen lips, kissing the trail of her dress, kissing her shoes, and worshipping her like the Holy Virgin she had never wanted to be. This, too, did not feel right. There would be more love than she could ever endure in a lifetime, but a love of the burning, all-consuming and destroying kind, the type of aesthetic madness that would set Rome on fire just to watch it burn and serenade it with a fitting love song. Her voice would fan the flames again and again, and her soul would turn to ash again and again, only to be reborn in his compositions. Art for art’s sake.

Both day and night left her as soulless automaton, not unlike her mechanic doppelganger in the subterranean lair, and with the two halves warring inside her, Christine knew she had long lost herself in the no-man’s-land between them. There had been a time when life seemed easier and more carefree, when she had only just begun figuring out herself and her place in the world. Meg had played an important part back then, as her equal in laughter and joy. There had been opportunities, trial and error, and choices not written in blood. But true art demanded sacrifices, did it not? Friendships, and easy intimacy, and simple emotions were the way of the common people, not of artists gifted with divine ambition. The _angel_ had known how to tap into this perilous part of her psyche, into this damn ambition and into her damn insecurities, until it had taken over her entire being. And the occasional self-doubts were taken care of by her two rivalling admirers - who wouldn’t want to be wooed by nobility and worshipped by a genius?

It was one of those sleepless nights, when she felt a presence looming on the balcony in front of her window, a shadow too large for a crow, too small for the ghost she did not dare recall to life. Moonlight filtered into her bedroom, turning everything into a dazzling palette of blues, and it made the slowly moving silhouette a real and actual occurrence, not a dream-induced phantasy. But could she really be so sure of her faculties anymore?

The figure was slim and not of the height she would have expected. Its form was difficult to ascertain - definitely human, but wrapped tightly into a dark cloak, with only the shape of a fedora on top clearly visible.

Christine felt her heart beat faster with each passing second. The figure was standing almost motionlessly now, and while she definitely felt observed, she could not tell whether the shadow was really peering into her window and if it had realised that she was already wide awake and looking back at it. The spot under the prominent hat was just as black-blue as the rest of the figure, as if it had hidden its face beneath a part of its cape. But then - movement. The shadow unfolded, put a long arm up against the window pane with the fabric pulled taut under it like the wing of a bat. It peered into the room! And with a slight tilt of its head the moonlight caught the spot under the fedora just at the right angle: A gleaming white half-mask flashed like a beacon - a threat, a promise.

No, it could not be! This was not… Could it be _him_?

She should have screamed and fled the room, called for the servants, or even - even called out loud for Raoul, yes, how telling that this was the last option to come to her mind. Instead she felt her body shake off its frozen state, come alive again, and all but jump out of the bed; her feet carried her to the window door, and before she realised what she was actually doing, she ripped open the door so vehemently that it creaked on its hinges.

Face to face with the phantom of her nightmares, the cool air of night hitting her skin, something - was not quite right. The phantom seemed menacing in its dramatic outfit, but it was much smaller and diminutive than how she clearly remembered it. Her, no, _the_ opera ghost had been of a lean but strong build, towering over her by means of their sheer difference in height.

A gloved hand came up to grasp and pull at the edge of the white porcelain at the same time that the figure’s head moved ever so slowly out of the shadow that still hid the other half of its face - _his good side_ , a voice in her head commented - , in the safe refuge of the hat’s brim that was deeply drawn over the brow. Tantalisingly controlled movements removed both mask and shadow, and so it happened that both sides were unveiled to her gaze at the same time, unmasking a face so familiar to her that she forgot how to breathe. Christine could only stare open-mouthed but silent. No sound would form in her mouth, no matter the thousand questions that jumbled through her mind, and even her gasp stuck somewhere deep inside her throat.

“So this is what it takes to make you look at me again,” the phantom finally spoke to her, in a soft and almost child-like voice, a voice so young and still tinged with the mature sadness of old age.

Surely she would faint any minute now, she could feel it coming. She would faint, and the world would turn to black, and then Christine would either wake up again in the solitude of her luxurious bedroom, another morning laughing cruelly into her face and inviting polite boredom, or… - or she would wake up somewhere deep down in the cellars underneath an opera house of the past, comforted by the sweet music of her fallen angel and thick candle smoke, and all the choices would be hers to make this time.

But she did not faint, and the phantom held her gaze like an accuser. “You left me, cast me aside so many times. You did it once for your art, and once again for _him_ , and then once more for your Vicomte. Why, Christine, why? Am I nothing to you, a mere toy, a distraction?”

Meg. There she stood in front of her, not the timid girl anymore, but striking a pose in this terrifying costume, the white mask in her gloved hands, yet her unblemished face distorting and destroying the illusion of the phantom.

Cold fear crept into Christine’s heart - for whom or of what, she did not dare to think. “Where did you get his mask?”

It came out as a hoarse whisper and was the wrong question to ask.

Meg just gave a derisive snort and turned away to throw first the offending costume piece and then her fedora onto the bed. Her blond hair was shockingly short and slicked back.

“Of course, this is your first concern,” she mumbled, still turned away. “In his home, if you must know. Left on this big swanky chair we had used as throne in _Don Carlos_. - That man really did have a penchant for drama, hm? A throne. Ego’s bigger than Hannibal’s elephant. Can’t believe he never took that one down to his lair. Would have gone well with the swan bed.” The voice was dripping with bitterness, but it seemed contrived; there was no real acrimony. But then the rambling stopped and her back straightened. When she turned around again to face Christine there was a look of defiance on Meg’s face.

“Did you really think Raoul was the only one to come and rescue you? This knight in shining armour? I had thrown myself into the next best breeches I could grab from the costume rack and I ran, yes, Christine, I rushed down the slopes and slides, crawled through tunnels, and tumbled down stairs. But I… I only had you on my mind, Christine, not my ego. I needed to make sure you are safe, needed to find out if you had been kidnapped again or if you - if you really wanted to be with him. I was not going to lay any claim on you, like the rest of those idiots. I just had to make sure you were okay.”

Christine swallowed hard, and then the tears started falling, the gasp dislodged itself from her throat and came out in big ugly sobs.

“Meg, you could have died down there,” she stumbled over the words that now spilled out of her, “the traps, the lake, the… his rage, Meg. - You saw him?”

Meg shook her head. “Erik is dead, Christine.”

She inhaled sharply. No! Impossible! “He is…?”

“Erik is dead,” Meg repeated, enunciating each syllable. Christine felt a tremor go through her body. She had known it, deep down, hadn’t she. Even hoped for it - in those moments when she had hated herself most for fearing it.

The voice softened. “I found him dying, Christine.”

“Did they…? Was he…?”

“No, the mob never got to him. I think he had just given up at this point. After I found his mask on the chair, I went to look for you - for you and him both, I guess. But… you were gone. Gone from his life, and gone from mine, and all I found was a frightened and lonely man, curled up in a coffin like a forlorn child, dying of a broken heart. I stayed with him during his last few hours, and I was the one to bury him.”

Christine hid her face in her hands. “He had sent me away, he gave me no choice.” It came out muffled but stubborn. She was not going to defend her escape.

Meg nodded. “Yes. But, Christine, I never did. Yet, you left us both.”

She looked up to find Meg’s eyes firmly trained on hers. There was so much raw love and hurt in them, a fire - a gentle fire, though, not the over-whelming passion of the manic genius that threatened to burn the world with homeric grandezza.

“I am not going to make excuses for him,” Meg continued. “But I felt his pain. And I made a promise. If you really want to, you can continue this charade of a living, breathing bride of a dead phantom who loved you too much. Or the withering trophy wife of a Vicomte who loves you too little. It’s up to you if you want to remain their pawn and wallow in the misery of silent suffering. When I picked up this mask, I promised myself that I would never make the same stupid mistakes as these men, so I am not going to pressure you into anything. It’s been so long, too long. But I… I care for you, Christine, and I want you to know that.”

The new sleek hairstyle made her cheekbones stand out and gave Meg’s once so soft, round face hard angles in the moonlight. Or had she aged that much in three years? The look on her face, however, was so open and vulnerable - Christine could see how much strength it had cost her to speak her mind. How often had she dismissed Meg’s freely given affection as just another expression of need for closeness and comfort between best friends? The hugs and stolen kisses as just another token of friendship between adolescent girls? The lazy caresses in the cover of the night as experiments in intimacy between ballet rats, because wasn’t that how one was supposed to learn (for later, always for later), and weren’t they supposed to “grow out of it” eventually (and find men, always men), and did it even count and…?

And now Christine did - no, not faint - but break down and cry for real, because it all made so much more sense to her. Meg - who was always there for her, and Meg - who would always welcome her back into her hugs and into the comfort of her bed, no matter how much Christine had neglected her, and Meg - who would listen with big sad eyes to her droning on and on about her childish excitement (an engagement - like a princess in a fairy tale!), and her adult doubts (but is this really love what I feel for him?), and the emotional upheaval and confusion (when would her body finally start desiring him?), and Meg - who would kiss her fear and nightmares away and hold her and confront even phantoms and madmen, and risk death for her and…

Meg - whom she had always taken for granted, until suddenly she was gone together with the last vestiges of the oh-so-frivolous world of music and theatre. Exchanged for a life in a château, a golden cage, where music and dance were not welcome anymore unless diminished into a superficial, decorative tool. It was not just the ghostly touch that had tainted music in the de Chagny household; she wished it were that simple. No, everything Christine had once held dear was now reduced to silliness at best (ah, little Lotte…!) and an affront at worst (but Madame la Vicomtess!), but the soulless automaton could not even bring herself to care.

Christine felt her shoulders shake violently, and she heaved with the effort of catching her breath between all the spit and snot and hiccoughs. Oh God, she had denied herself those tears far too long, and now they just kept falling, a torrent of regrets and grief and chances lost. Somewhere along the line she had lost Meg just like she had lost herself - and this had been no coincidence. Those simple, honest emotions they once had shared…

Through the haze she barely became aware of black wool against her cheek, wet with her tears and drool, and two deceptively slim arms holding her in a strong embrace. The figure of the phantom, even though its proportions were all wrong, had never felt so right against her body as it rocked her gently.

“You’re such a beautiful mess, Christine,” she heard a voice say into her curls, and a warm spark of tenderness pulled at her lips until she could not hold in the tiny smile any longer.

She sniffed back in a most inelegant way, unbecoming of a Vicomtess. “You bet I am. I’ve always been, but you’re the only one able to see it.”

Meg drew back far enough to look into her eyes and Christine felt as if the shattered pieces of her soul were slowly coming together again, a crystal piece facetted by cracks and chips, but eager to catch the light again and let it scatter in a multitude of irregular rainbows.

Meg’s gloved hands folded around hers.

“Mother and I inherited a house in Rouen shortly after you - went away that night. And a few months ago I started working at the new theatre they just opened there thanks to the generous bequest of a former patron. It’s not much, I suppose, compared to the _Opéra Garnier_. But they have a heart for young talents. - I’m not going to ask you, Christine, just telling you. If you ever feel like…-”

“I have a voice,” Christine heard herself say. “I have a voice, and I could have a life again, without one destroying the other.”

Meg’s answering smile was cautious but visibly hopeful, as she picked up the mask she had discarded on the bed earlier and toyed nervously with it.

“That’s already more than I had hoped to hear from you tonight,” she said. “You will let me know?”

The fidgeting was endearing, and Christine felt the last bit of tension drain from her. She took the mask from Meg’s hands and studied the artistic sweeps and bows of the fine material with her fingers. Life was so damn short.

“I will.”

* * *

I could now do you the favour, dear reader, and tell you how, in the shelter of the dark, two figures eloped together on horseback, and that they lived happily ever after. But then this fairytale would be no better than the rest of them. There were no life-changing choices made that night. No further spur-of-the-moment decisions. No epic declarations of love. The phantom disappeared back into the silence of the night, only leaving behind its porcelain token, and its exit was thoroughly lacking in extravagance and drama. But two months later, the mask was seen in Rouen. And eight months later, Christine’s voice was heard on the stage, and it was beautiful and brilliant in all its imperfections, and no one had to die.

 

This beautiful illustration was created for this phic by my beloved angel Barbra Daly (check out their [Tumblr](https://brbdaly-a.tumblr.com) to see more of their gorgeous art).

 


End file.
